“We’re leaving,” Mitchell announced to the room, his voice steady, cold, and utterly devoid of the warmth I had known for five years. “The charade is over.”

My eight-month-pregnant belly felt like it was crushing my lungs. The baby kicked hard—a sharp, distinct thud against my ribs—as if she knew. As if she could feel my heart shattering into a thousand jagged pieces right there in my mother-in-law’s pristine living room.

“Mitchell,” my voice came out as a wet, broken whisper. “What are you…?”

“Don’t.” He held up his free hand without even looking at me. “Just don’t, Emma. We both know this has been coming.”